Remember when the earth turned slowly?
by CayCullen
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is seventeen years old and is a resident of a Small Town in the north of England. His best friend is John Watson and he is deeply and secretly in love with him. Marry Morstan is the gold digging woman who threatens to destroy their bond.


**Title**: _Remember When the Earth Turned Slowly?  
_

**Author**: caycullen

**Beta: **eater_of_light (You can find her on Live Journal).

**Rating**: PG-13 (There is some bad language)

**Summary**: Sherlock Holmes is seventeen years old and is a resident of a Small Town in the north of England. His best friend is John Watson and he is _deeply_ and _secretly_ in love with him. Marry Morstan, who is Head Girl of their school, a bitch, a gold digger and possible soulless, is the woman who threatens to ruin Sherlock's relationship with John.

**A/N**: My first Holmes/Watson fic ever! :) I'm so glad I got into writing for this fandom, at first I was unsure of myself because I was worried I wouldn't do this brilliant ship justice. But with the help of my _amazing_ beta, it turned out _way _better then I thought it would. This is an AU, but I and my beta tried to stay true to Guy Ritchie's version of all the Characters. :) Therefore, just picture in your mind young versions of all the Characters.

* * *

_Remember when the Earth Turned Slowly?_

_Chapter One: The Date_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, seventeen years old, resident of a Small Town in the north of England, was heading toward the local football field at a steady lope. He had been making this journey every Thursday night since he was ten. His best friend, John Watson, also seventeen, played his football games there.

It was a horrible football field. It was horrible in large part because of its location, the Town Park. The park they had was twice as old as Sherlock himself. He thinks it was built when his grand parents were still alive. He was sure that in it's time it had been a brilliant park, but now, it was desolate, on the verge of crumbling to rot and rust.

There was no jungle gym for the children, nor a sandbox. And the slide they had was ancient. Sherlock also knew, from observation and personal experience, it was a death trap. First off, it was the tallest, steepest slide he had ever seen, nearly vertical; and to make it even worse…it was made of metal. Sherlock knew that you would have to be A; insane, or B;time warped from the Iron Age, to think building a slide out of metal was a good idea.

When summer came around, the slide was burning hot to the touch, like a stovetop set to high after baking all day under the sun. The slide was just waiting to greet the underside of your legs 'warmly', giving you first-degree burns as you enjoyed the ride. Lastly, to top it all off, there were no cute plastic safety rails or encapsulating tube covering. Which meant that if you went too fast or aimed your legs poorly, your shoes would skid on the metal, and you'd spill over the side, landing face first in the liberally spread, exceptionally sharp gravel. Thankfully, Sherlock hasn't done this since he was eight. He had mastered the demon slide at eight, and it hasn't given him problems since.

Still, most children weren't up to the challenge. If he ever sees kids around he tries to keep them away from it.

To his relief, most parents have the common sense to take their children to the park the next town over.

Everything about this park was dangerous. For example, there were wooden 'tightrope' beams suspended high in the air, daring the confident, athletic kids to attempt a slow, heart-pounding high wire walk while other kids encouragingly showered them with handfuls of sand and pine cones.

There were also four fire poles two stories high — each was just a cheap, simple pole planted deep in the ground, sunk into cement. Sherlock can see why they built them at them time. They were a practical education; the poles quietly introduced children to concepts like gravity, friction, and traumatized ankle ligaments.

Nowadays, most people prefer for children to discover gravity some other, less harmful way.

Another thing was the very old, very unsafe, swing set. There were three swings in total, but if Sherlock's calculations were right, and they always were, if three kids all got on at once and began to swing the * set would collapse on top of them. He liked the swing; it was safe as long as you swung by yourself. Solitude suited him.

The safest thing here for children was the teeter-totter. It was completely risk free, and equally boring. The thing just went up and then came right back down. It used to be very colorful, but as Sherlock grew older he had watched the paint color fade away completely.

It was Sherlock's habit to mess around with every single potentially deadly object in the park while he waited for Watson to change in the locker room.

His absolute favorite thing in the park was the large, metal, Mary-Go-Round.

It wasn't the kind with lights and plastic horses going up and down to canned music. This was just a giant metal circle, which laid about a foot off the ground and could be spun, usually by someone standing beside it. He never used it until John came out to spin him. He could never go as fast as he wanted to by himself.

When he spun, it was like everything stopped. Even though he was spinning so fast his skin tingled, he felt calm; at peace, like his brain had finally shut down for a while.

Except for when he was whirling on the dodgy old carousel, Sherlock could never really make himself stop thinking. He noticed anything and everything around him. He took it all in and analyzed every single bit of it. Of course, this had its benefits, but at night it kept him from being able to sleep. He was even on some medication for it, but it wasn't working. He had to do a lot of things to make his mind finally shut off, and that usually led to John not getting any sleep either. Sherlock had, during previous insomniac spells, made some… unwise decisions.

For example, in January of his freshman year, he had walked three miles to a bar in sub zero temperatures, had promptly insulted a man's honor (according to him and his rather narrow ideas of sexual decency), and had run all the way to Watson's house to escape being shivd and left in a dumpster to die. At four o'clock in the morning. From then on he'd been under oath to go to Watson for help sleeping before he tried testing the Kinsey scale with pick up lines in Biker bars. To John's dismay, getting Sherlock's mind to finally rest required John not getting any rest at all.

Right now though, the full moon hung in the September sky and Sherlock was climbing the chain link fence that surrounded the park. Yes, there was a gate he could use, but…why breeze right by when he could climb? It was a small fence and he landed with ease in front of the football field.

It looked just as decrepit as the surrounding park; the grass seemed as if it was going to die. Knowing this place, it probably was.

He saw Watson, still in his black and blue uniform, practicing kicking the ball into the goal.

He had at least six balls lined up to kick into the goal. Sherlock was amazed, though unsurprised given John's stubbornness, that John could do this with the state his leg was in. When he was nine years old John had been in a car crash, causing a severe complex fracture in his left leg.

His parents thought he would lose the use of his leg, but with physical therapy he'd regained full mobility. Now it only causes him some pain in cold weather, and causes him to walk with a slight limp. The football had been a way to keep his leg moving, and as painful as it was at first, he'd taken to it and he was now just as good as all the unimpaired players.

"One of these days, you're going to come to one of my games."

John said before making a kick that sent the ball directly into the goal.

Sherlock never came to the games; it was always crowded and the game never really kept him interested for long.

Coming here at night, though, when John was here alone, that kept him interested.

"I see no reason to. I want to see you, not all the other ruffians."

Sherlock said.

"Some of those 'ruffians' are my friends."

John pointed out before making another kick.

Sherlock walked to the bleachers and sat down on the first row.

"They're dumb jocks who want nothing from you except your ability to score goals."

Sherlock corrected as John made another shot into the net.

John stopped and turned toward him to look at him, confusion mixed with exasperation.

"Why you come here is beyond me."

He stated. Sherlock just smiled.

"I've come here since we were ten, Watson. The same day, at the same exact time. Why break the habit now?" His words were flippant, a cover for deeper emotion.

John scoffed.

"Because you don't even like the game."

John replied and Sherlock shrugged.

John was right, Sherlock hated football, but he didn't hate John. He loved John actually.

Of course, he wouldn't tell John this. He was his best friend, if he told him…their relationship would be ruined. Sherlock wouldn't lose John because he couldn't keep his emotions in check. He went days without sleep or food. He could handle his own heart.

He hasn't kept everything from John; he told him he was gay when they were fifteen. To his surprise John had just smiled at him and said he knew, and that it didn't change their friendship at all. It did change Sherlock's feelings for John, however. Somewhere along the road of their friendship, he realized he had fallen hard for his best friend, like a complete idiot. Sherlock still hated that he let himself fall so deeply in love with John when he knew John was straight as an arrow.

"That's only a minor dilemma."

He replied smoothly.

John laughed to Sherlock's surprise.

"You are a puzzle to me."

He said almost fondly before kicking another ball into the goal.

Sherlock smiled as he watched John kick the remaining two balls in silence.

When he was finished he looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"What?"

Sherlock asked.

"You want me to carry these all by myself?"

He asked.

"Well since your offering…."

Sherlock replied and John rolled his eyes.

"Get over here and help me so I can get in the bloody shower."

John ordered and Sherlock stood up with a sigh.

After they put the balls away in the equipment shed near the field, John went to shower in the small locker room.

The school didn't have the money to make a football field on school grounds, but they did have the money to build a small locker room in the park where the school team held their matches.

Sherlock listened to his I-phone as he pushed himself desultorily on the swing. He tended to listen to classical music; that or dubstep mixes. He didn't listen to anything the other kids in school listened to. Given they're preferences ran to Nicki Minaj and Adam Lambert, Sherlock did not feel the disparity too painfully, as far as being different from his 'peers' went.

At least John would listen to dubstep…and he tried to tolerate the classical music.

Sherlock chose a loud, bass heavy dubstep and tried to keep his mind from wandering off to thoughts about John in the shower.

To keep his mind on track he tried to figure out what he would do to get to sleep tonight.

Usually he would try to work his brain so much he would simply wear himself out.

He would solve complex differential equations in his head, watch the Investigation Discovery channel and solve the crime within the first five minutes, or when things were really bad, overdose on his sleeping pills.

He knew it was a stupid thing to do…for most people. He was anything but 'most people'. And if it made him sleep it was worth it. Besides, he knew the chemical formula of his prescription better than most doctors, much less his shrink. He was in control.

John came out in a black pea coat, white t-shirt, and jeans. He walked over to Sherlock and watched him for a moment as he swung, arching upwards, dangerously high.

"What do you want to do tonight?"

John asked him.

Every Thursday night, they always did something. Sometimes they would stay at the park till three in the morning. Other times they would go to a cinema, or drive an hour away to the city, go to the top of the tallest building (not always open to the public) and just lie down and gaze at the sky. They saved the drinking, partying, fistfights, and gambling for the weekends.

"Let's stay here. I'm not in the mood to leave tonight."

Sherlock replied.

He didn't want to leave. The cool night felt soothing on his skin, and overall it just felt too nice to go off somewhere.

"Alright."

John said simply, quickly checking the clock on his phone.

It was nine; he was supposed to have a date with Mary at ten.

John hadn't told Sherlock about Mary yet, but it was only because he knew how much Sherlock hated her. They had known Mary for years, and Sherlock had always loathed her in the extreme. John never really understood his animosity. To him, Mary had only ever been sweet, kind, and a little flirtatious.

"What'd you do after school?"

John asked and Sherlock placed his feet on the ground, stopping himself mid swing.

He took his earbuds out and put his phone back in his jean pocket.

"I went to the school guidance counselor, and got talked at about my 'future career choice'…again," Sherlock said in a sigh.

"Thought you wanted to be a detective."

John noted and Sherlock groaned.

"I do! But the bloody woman is trying to get me to be the wrong kind of detective."

She doesn't understand why I don't want to work for the police. I'm really getting sick and tried of explaining it. Why doesn't she understand that I don't want to be held down by incompetents with badges?"

"Maybe because she doesn't understand you."

John offered.

Sherlock laughed dryly.

"That tends to be the problem."

He mumbled before walking toward the Mary-Go-Round.

"I'm a little confused myself on what kind of detective you want to be. Do you want to be a private de-?

"I want to be a consulting detective; someone who works along side the police – but not for them." Sherlock said, sitting down cross-legged on the Mary-Go-Round.

"Is that even a real thing?"

John asked and Sherlock smiled.

"Not yet. But it will be when I become one, and the police would be complete idiots if they didn't accept my help." Sherlock said proudly.

He grabbed hold of both of the safety bars beside him.

"You still want to be a doctor?"

Sherlock asked curiously.

"Yes…but my dad wants me to keep playing football. He thinks I'm good enough to play for England."

John said derisively.

He knew he wasn't good enough to play Nationally, though that was only because he didn't have the passion for it. But football was a hobby for him, something to keep his bad leg active; he didn't really want to be football player for the rest of his life. He wanted to be a doctor and help people.

"You could be. You would have to train all the time, though."

Sherlock told him.

He had complete faith in John. In his eyes John could be anything he wanted to be, and his eyes were never wrong.

"I know I could, but the thing is that-

"You don't want to."

Sherlock cut him off in a matter of fact tone.

John sighed and nodded.

"Why don't you tell him that?"

Sherlock asked.

"I have, a number of times, but you've met my dad, he's very –

"Stubborn."

Sherlock offered.

"I was going to say determined, but…that works too."

John said and placed a hand on the railing and giving it an easy push.

Sherlock began spinning at a very slow and lazy pace, but he didn't mind; he was talking to John, his thoughts always stayed on track when he talked to him. The buzzing of the million and one things he observed quieted into a murmur. John focused him.

"What exactly is he trying to get you to do?"

Sherlock asked.

"Apply for football scholarships – god, last week he even took me to meet a coach for some collage, I don't even remember the name of it now. I have no clue how he pulled that off."

"I do."

Sherlock said.

"How?"

John asked as he watched Sherlock go around.

"He's rich."

Sherlock replied simply and Watson smiled as he pushed the Mary-Go-Round.

"Obviously, I know that, but even I didn't know he could just pay people to meet me."

John explained.

"My dear, naive Watson. You yourself being rich, one would think you'd understand that money will get you just about anything."

Sherlock commented.

"I'm not rich. My parents are. I having a piece of crap car that proves my pay grade."

He said the last part a bit bitterly.

"At least you have a car; my mother doesn't trust me to have one."

Sherlock said and John laughed.

"I don't trust you with one, Holmes."

John said.

Sherlock smiled at him as he passed by.

"Me neither. I'd wreck a car anyway."

He said almost cheerfully.

"This means I'm going to be riding around town with you for the rest of my life."

Sherlock said in a singsong voice as he span.

"The hell you are."

John said with a laugh.

"Who else will give me a ride?"

Sherlock asked innocently.

"Irene."

John replied.

"Yes, but she has her own life. I don't want to bug her with driving me around."

Sherlock said.

"But you want to bug me?"

John asked with a smile and began pushing the Mary-Go-Round a little harder.

"Of course. Unlike Irene, I know you don't have a life."

Sherlock replied smoothly and John just laughed.

"Shut up and I'll spin you."

John said and began pushing the Mary-Go-Round as fast and as hard as he could, arms pumping.

Sherlock closed his eyes and held on as tight as he knew how.

His whole body went numb, along with his mind. It was as if everything simply ceased to exist.

The wind whistled through his ears, his skin tingled, and he thought of nothing, only of the sensation he was experiencing. He wished he could live in this moment, spend the rest of his time on earth simply spinning. This was as relaxed as he had ever felt.

Suddenly, he began to slow down; to him it had only been a few seconds.

"What? What time is it?"

Sherlock asked. Watson would only stop when it was getting too late.

Time seemed to fly by when Sherlock was caught in the spin. Especially when he was with John.

"An hour and a half past Nine."

John replied, and when Sherlock placed his feet on the ground to stop, he stared up at him with confusion.

"So why did you stop?"

He asked and John swallowed hard.

"I had a date at ten, and now I'm seriously late. I need to get going."

A sting of pain lanced through Sherlock's chest and he tried to swallow around the sensation.

He had seen John go on many dates…but it still hurt like a bitch.

"Oh, um…with who?"

Sherlock asked with a forced smile as he stood.

They began walking toward the parking lot, Sherlock leading the way and John following beside him.

"Mary."

John blurted it out quickly because he knew that this wasn't going to go well.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, a feeling like anger rising up in his chest.

At first he didn't want to believe; he had warned John about Mary regularly, frequently, and vehemently. False hope set roots into Sherlock as he turned to John, wide eyed.

"Please tell me you mean a different Marry then the one I'm thinking of."

Holmes pleaded.

"She's not as bad as you-

"No, no, no, no, no, no!"

Sherlock shouted.

This couldn't be happening. This was a nightmare. John couldn't be mad enough to go on a date with Mary.

Mary Morstan was a gold digging, stuck up bitch…at least in Sherlock Holmes's expert opinion.

She was Head Girl , extremely popular, and the most vile, intensely annoying person in school…and those were only the obvious reasons to hate her; he also had personal grievances with the Queen Bitch of the Class Overlords (her willing slaves and fellow elected class officials. It was a mockery of the Democratic process.)

Firstly, she had looked down on him like he was scum of the earth just because he didn't worship at her feet like everyone else.

The second reason is that his only friend besides John, Irene Adler, was kicked off the Student Council. It was the most childish bit of bullying he'd observed since Primary School. Irene was kicked out simply because she was prettier, better liked, and just plain superior in skill to Mary when it came to academics and administrative work.

Of course, instead of being an honest, face-to-face bitch and just telling Irene to leave, she had to go and be a two-faced, backstabbing bitch. The whole thing screamed 'Teen Soap Opera' so loud it was painful. The cliché made Sherlock nauseous.

The reason Marry said she'd kicked Irene out of the Student Council was because she claimed that Irene had stolen a 'priceless family heirloom', a ring her grandmother had given her.

Now, Irene was no stranger to a little recreational thievery, but Sherlock knew she was too good to get caught. That's what made him believe Irene didn't do it. That and the fact Irene told him she hadn't. She took pride in the things she could get away with and would talk to Sherlock about it frequently. It was a personal insult to her to have been caught, even under false pretenses. Therefore, and because he was her friend, he believed her when no one else would.

The reason no else believed her innocence was because Mary framed her, hiding the ring in Irene's bag. Thankfully, Irene wasn't expelled, just suspended for a week.

Now, Sherlock hated Mary with a fiery passion for what she had done to his friend.

"Have you gone mad?"

Sherlock asked John frantically.

John sighed.

"Holmes, she really isn't that-

"Isn't that bad?" Sherlock questioned with shock, "She framed Irene!"

Sherlock was trying to fight the urge to shake John.

"She says Irene has stolen a few things. Hell, you told me Irene steals stuff-

"She didn't steal that damned ring! I know she didn't!"

Sherlock said firmly and John looked at the ground.

" I'll find out for myself what she's like. I'm going out with Mary."

John said simply and looked back up at his friend.

Sherlock gaped at him.

"You do realize this woman is nothing but a gold digger? And possibly devoid of a human soul?" Sherlock asked him incredulously.

John groaned.

"That's only a rumour and, I quote, 'you don't believe in anything unverifiable by empirical evidence, such as the human soul'," John spat angrily.

"If they do exist, I'd bet there's a hole were hers should be. And do you really believe it's 'only a rumour'? You think it's just a coincidence that every few months she gets a richer boyfriend, right when her credit goes bad?"

Sherlock mocked.

"It's called dating! And the fact that you watch her enough to know her credit status is unhealthy." John bellowed, trying to make his friend at least consider that Mary wasn't Evil Incarnate.

"No! It's called gold digging, Watson! She works her 'boyfriends' for all they're worth!

She makes them fall in love with her, and then she leaves them broken hearted once she spots someone with deeper pockets."

Sherlock was staring in John's eyes, begging him not to be so naive.

John glared at him.

"Did Irene tell you this?"

John asked.

"No! I deduced this on my own."

Sherlock said it proudly, as if that made it completely right.

In the back of John's mind…he knew that if Sherlock had reached this conclusion that meant he was probably right. He didn't want to believe it, though. He refused to believe all the rumours about Mary, she couldn't be as horrible as Sherlock (and some people at school) made her out to be. He wanted to see the good in her, and until he saw the bad himself he wasn't going to let gossip stop him from going on a date with her.

"Look, as much as I look up to you for your…skills…there's no way to persuade me."

John said clearly.

"I'm going out with Mary-

"You can't!"

Sherlock finally grabbed John by the shoulders.

"John, you have a logical mind…please for the love of God, use it!"

Sherlock begged and shook John, though only a little.

John fought his way out of Sherlock's hold and just stared angrily at him.

"Just because I'm not doing what you want doesn't make it illogical!"

He snapped and finally began walking again toward his car.

"I'm going out with Mary, and that's final."

He said firmly without turning around.

Sherlock stood rooted on the spot, wanting to believe this was all some sick nightmare or a delusion brought on from lack of sleep, but the pain and rage rushing through his body felt too real to be either.

John finally turned around after he was a few feet away.

He could tell he had hurt Sherlock, and that made him feel horribly guilty, but he had a right to live his life as he chose. Sherlock Holmes didn't control what he did or said, he had a right to do what he wanted…and he was going to.

"Do you still want a ride-"

"I'll walk."

Sherlock cut him off.

John could hear the bite in his tone; he sighed, praying things between them would be better in the morning.

"It's a few miles to your house, are you sure you-

"I'm sure. Go on. Don't want to be late."

Sherlock said with a cruel smile before turning his back and starting to walk away.

John knew somewhere in his mind that this was the beginning of a horrible stalemate with his friend, but he didn't care (wanted to not care)…he was going to do what he wanted regardless of what his friend thought. It was just one date. It wasn't like after that he would be hooked on her, like she was meth or something. It was just one date. This didn't change anything. This was completely harmless. Just one date.

So why was he suddenly nervous?

Sherlock had no intention of going home. He was going to the only friend who would understand how he felt right now. Irene.

* * *

**AN: Please review! I beg you!**


End file.
